Catch Me When I Fall
by Zana Zira
Summary: Season 8, pre-Third Trial: Sam's puppy-dog eyes are going to be the death of Dean one day, he's always known it. But today, they might actually end up being the death of Sam when they earn him a spot in a hunt he had no business participating in. Sick/Hurt!Sam, Worried/Caring!Dean. Written for the SPN Summergen Fic Exchange on LJ.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.**

**A/N: This fic was actually written back in July, for the SPN_Summergen Gen Fic Exchange on LiveJournal. I wasn't allowed to post it anywhere else until they revealed all of the authors, since the fics were posted anonymously at first. The story was a prompt fill for SPNxBookworm, and the prompt was as follows:**

**"Set season 8 but before Sam does the third trial. Dean is worried when Sam finds a hunt and insists on going to it. Sam isn't up to his best and is even worse with the fever spikes and coughing up blood. Nevertheless, Dean succumbs and agrees."**

* * *

><p>"Hey, Dean, take a look at this."<p>

Dean glanced over at Sam from the other side of the enormous table in the bunker's main room, wondering what kind of brainiac nonsense his brother was wanting him to see on that laptop this time. He was thrilled that Sam was having so much fun archiving all the Men of Letters' old documents and things, he really was. Ever since the Trials had begun – hell, ever since Dean came back from Purgatory, really – it was rare to see a smile on the younger Winchester's face.

Sam's health was so fragile these days, sometimes he could hardly make it out of bed because of the fevers he was always running. He barely ate despite his older brother's best efforts to cook the things he liked for him, and he'd lost so much weight that his old clothes hung like burlap sacks off his narrow frame. He was constantly coughing, often with splatters of blood joining the mix before being wiped off his lips with worn handkerchiefs he tucked away where he thought Dean wouldn't find them.

It worried Dean to no end seeing his younger brother, who he'd practically raised like a son, wasting away a little closer to nothing every day. So seeing Sam find happiness in some kind of mission, even if it was only cataloguing old documents into an archive, made Dean feel a lot lighter than he had in a while. That said, though, if he had to hear about the process of converting an old piece of papyrus to a usable PDF one more time…

"What is it?" he finally asked, abandoning the book on old styles of Devil's Traps he had been reading to join Sam on the other side of the table. Sam just coughed into his fist and pushed the laptop over so Dean could read the document he had been scanning. No, not a document, a news article.

Apparently there had been four or five disappearances in the last two weeks in a small mountain town in Colorado, and no one had found any remains, not even bones, to identify the victims. It was actually very close to the Blackwater Ridge area, where they'd worked the case with the Wendigo only days after Dean had fetched Sam from Stanford almost eight years ago.

Once he'd finished reading, he returned the computer to Sam, trying not to show any kind of reaction when he raised an eyebrow and said, "Huh. Interesting. And why are you showing this to me, exactly?"

Sam pulled a bitchface, seeing right through Dean's avoidance tactic the moment he tried it.

"Dean. This could be our kind of thing. You can't tell me it doesn't look just like a Wendigo."

"Maybe it does, yeah. But there are plenty of other things it could be, too. It's spring, Sam. Lots of animals that eat people are out and about now. Bears and cougars at the very least."

Sam sighed. "What's your problem all of a sudden? Usually you'd be all over this." His face fell when he figured it out barely an instant later, and he sighed bitterly to himself. "This is about the Trials, isn't it?"

"No, Sam. It's not," Dean said entirely unconvincingly.

"Yeah? Then what is it about, huh? Because right up until I finished the second trial, you were always on my case for dropping out of hunting for a year, and you were completely ready and willing to go on any hunt we came across." He stopped to cough a couple of times, and Dean was glad not to see blood on the back of his hand afterwards. "But ever since I got Bobby's soul out of Hell, you barely want me to leave the house to go to the damn grocery store!"

"It's because you're sick!" Dean spat, slamming his fist down on the table. "You're running a fever almost twenty-four/seven, and you're coughing up blood for God's sake! These trials could be killing you for all I know, and I'm not gonna speed the process up if I can help it!"

Sam's expression softened when Dean slumped down into his chair with his head in his hands, and his next words were calm and quiet.

"I know I'm sick, Dean. I'm the one living with it every day, remember? But there's nothing we can do about that until we find out what the third trial is. Besides, I'm feeling fine right now, and there are people who need our help out there. And we might even be able to save some of the victims if we get there soon enough."

Dean looked up with a sigh, his expression doubtful but obviously hovering on the edge of giving in. "And what if you start getting worse out there, huh? You really think I'm gonna let you hunt if you're boiling alive or coughing so hard you can barely breathe?"

"If it gets bad then I'll sit it out. I'm not gonna push myself too far, okay? I promise."

_Damn those puppy dog eyes of his._

"You're just gonna sneak out on this hunt anyway if I say no, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Alright," Dean said with a sigh and a shake of his head. "I'll go gas up the Impala."

He just hoped he wasn't going to regret this.

* * *

><p>The drive up to Colorado was quiet, and fairly tense. Dean was obviously not on board with having Sam along on this hunt, which infuriated the younger Winchester on multiple levels. Sure, he hadn't been at his best recently, but they knew exactly why that was, and that it was completely out of their control. None of his symptoms were going to go away until the Trials were finished, and maybe even later than that. Besides, Dean was supposed to be his partner, not his worrywart mother. If Sam said he was fine, then he was fine, and Dean should trust him.<p>

Although, as the morning wore on Sam was beginning to feel less and less fine.

He had pulled on a hoodie before they left, seeing as it was early spring and still a little chilly, but now it was past noon and he still had it zipped up to his neck, wracked with chills that left him just short of trembling as he curled his arms around himself in the passenger seat. He'd turned down Dean's offer of lunch at the gas station an hour ago; one whiff of the cheap microwave burrito and he'd been sure he was about to vomit all over his brother's boots. He also had a persistent tickle in the back of his throat, which meant a coughing fit was likely not far off. But if Dean noticed him clearing his throat and sipping his bottle of water more often than usual, he didn't say anything.

They were just thirty minutes outside of the town they were trying to reach when Sam suddenly felt his entire chest seize up, and he hurriedly grabbed a tissue from his hoodie pocket and covered his mouth with it just in time to launch into a terrible bout of coughing. He heard Dean curse beside him and felt the car pulling over to the shoulder, but although he was grateful for it he couldn't get enough breath for a "Thank you" at the moment. Every time he tried to inhale it just seemed to make him cough twice as hard, more blood spraying out between his lips and onto the tissue that was quickly becoming saturated with red. It hurt terribly, each rattling hack feeling like a razor blade being dragged across the insides of his lungs and throat, and he groaned in pain whenever he managed to suck in a little bit of air.

"Easy, Sam, take it easy," Dean said softly, although his voice sounded a little panicky even to Sam's ears. He felt a large hand whacking him between the shoulder blades with each exhale, forcing up more of the blood that was trying to settle in his chest against his will. "You're okay, you're okay," he said when Sam inhaled some of the blood and gasped in surprise, gagging once before resuming the coughing that was already making him red in the face from lack of oxygen. Sam just made a pained sound again, and Dean resumed patting him on the back to see if it would help anything.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, although it was probably only a couple of minutes, and then as soon as it had begun the fit ended. Sam spat into the Kleenex and crumpled it up in his hand, sinking back against the seat with an exhausted sigh.

"You alright now?" Dean asked when he had managed to catch his breath.

"Yeah… think so…" Sam said breathily.

Dean took the Kleenex from him to throw it away and grimaced at the amount of blood staining the white material. "Dude, if I come down with TB later on I'll know exactly where I got it."

Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Shut up."

Despite the lighthearted teasing, though, Dean looked him over with worry in his eyes, features pinched with concern and doubt. "I really don't think we should go through with this, Sam."

Sam whipped around to glare at him, ignoring the wave of dizziness the sudden movement caused. "Dean, I said I'm fine. I can do this, okay? Let's just get going."

"Alright, alright," Dean said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Bossy bitch."

They got back onto the road a few seconds later, and drove into town about a half hour after that. Neither of them said a word the entire time.

* * *

><p>"So it looks like you might've been right," Dean said once he and Sam were already part of the way through the long, slow trek up the mountainous area a few miles out of town. "Apparently one of these 'missing' people phoned in to their family right before they disappeared. From what her mom told me she was camping and said she heard something outside shrieking like a person being murdered. She went out to investigate and the line just cut off. Disappeared without a trace right after that."<p>

Sam opened his mouth to speak but stumbled over a root and cursed, kicking it irritably. He was already feeling worn down, and they weren't anywhere near the site where they thought the Wendigo's nest would be yet. It would've been much easier to get up at least part of the mountain with the Impala along, but unfortunately the roads here, if these shoddy old trails could be called roads, were too narrow for anything but an ATV. No way Dean's baby was getting anywhere near here in that case.

"Yeah, I got a similar story from one of the other victims' friends," Sam said quietly once he'd regained his footing. He hoped Dean hadn't noticed his stumble; that would only make him start nagging Sam about his health again.

But to be honest, Sam was sort of starting to wish they hadn't come here today. He was starting to feel chilled, which meant his fever was climbing again, and he was still nauseous from the sickening metallic taste of blood that coated his mouth after that afternoon's coughing fit. Even worse, he was starting to get dizzy and more than a little lightheaded. If this kept up much longer he was going to have to give in and tell Dean he needed to stop.

"Sam? You hear me?" Dean called from a few yards ahead.

"Sorry, what?" Sam asked blearily, wincing when Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Uh-huh… Well you just tell me if you need a break, okay? The mountain's not gonna go anywhere if you need to rest for a minute."

"Dean, I told you I'm fine. Can we just drop it?"

Dean snorted. "Whatever you say, man."

The two of them continued uphill for several miles, Sam feeling worse and worse with every step he took. He was fighting the urge to cough with every breath now, and his vision was practically swimming in front of him, swirling and dancing in waves of Technicolor that he knew he shouldn't be seeing. And was it just him, or was the air getting a lot thinner up here?

He was just about swallow his pride and call to Dean, who was up ahead, to ask if they could stop when he suddenly felt all the blood rush out of his head at once. He immediately began tilting sideways, all of his instincts to regain his balance failing him. He stumbled helplessly toward the steep side of the trail, which led down hundreds of feet to the bottom of the ravine below, and he barely had time to gasp in a breath and weakly cry out, "Dean!" before he fell completely over the edge.

In an instant, he was tumbling down the side of the steep trail like a stone, bouncing roughly off of tree roots and boulders as he scraped his hands bloody scrabbling for something to grab on to. For what seemed an eternity, he smashed against the rocks and roots and shale, grunting in pain with each new blow to his already abused body. He actually yelled out when he hit the ground at an odd angle and felt his left leg snap beneath him, and again when a rib or two did the same. Finally, just when he thought he would never stop falling, he felt the back of his head collide with an enormous rock he'd glimpsed only a second before.

By the time his limp body landed in a heap at the base of the ravine, he was already completely unconscious.

* * *

><p><em>"Dean!"<em>

"What?" Dean shouted over his shoulder when he heard Sam call his name. He figured that his brother was about to ask for a break; he'd been expecting that for miles, ever since Sam started panting a little bit and stumbling every few minutes. His brother was obviously trying to keep pushing himself, not wanting to show weakness on the hunt, and Dean respected his need to do so and kept his mouth shut. But he also knew Sam could only run on fumes for so long before his body demanded a rest.

So when Sam didn't say anything further, Dean immediately turned around, expecting to see him already seated on a rock or something while he caught his breath. What he didn't expect to find was an empty space where the other hunter had just been standing, no sign of his enormous form anywhere to be seen.

"Sam?" he called, heart beginning to race when he again received no response. "This isn't funny, man! Where are you?" Had the Wendigo gotten the drop on them already? Did it know they were here?

He made his way back to where Sam had just been, examining the trail for traces of Wendigo tracks or blood from a fresh wound. When he found none, he decided to peek over the edge of the path, not expecting to find anything but wanting to cover all his bases. When he saw a crumpled human form at the bottom, though, his heart plummeted down into his shoes.

"Oh my God. Sam! Sammy!"

Sam didn't respond to his shouts at all, didn't even twitch at the sound of his older brother's voice, and Dean's unhelpful mind began chanting _"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead…"_

"No. No," Dean growled, tightening the straps of his pack and clambering over the edge of the ravine. Sam wasn't dead, he couldn't be. Because if he was, it would all be on Dean's shoulders for letting him come along in the first place. "Hang on, Sammy. I'm coming, just hang on."

He eased himself over the edge of the ravine, making sure he had stable footing before putting all of his weight forward. Slowly and carefully, he climbed down the side, slipping several times and cursing when he almost ended up tumbling headlong to where Sam lay at the bottom.

He passed a large rock with a splatter of fresh blood on its longest edge, and he clenched his teeth and looked away. Sam was lucky he hadn't brained himself on that thing; if he didn't have at least a bad gash and maybe a concussion, Dean was going to be very surprised.

Finally, after a few minutes of careful descent that felt like several lifetimes, Dean reached Sam's prone form and crouched beside him, not touching him until he could get a better idea of what shape he was in. There was a small pool of blood behind the back of his head that had already started caking into his hair, which meant that he most likely did have a gash there. Several cuts and scrapes decorated his face, and there was some bizarre swelling around his nose; Dean winced when he realized it was probably broken. Most alarming was the fact that ever since he'd reached him, Sam had had a strange, raspy quality to his overly-rapid breathing, which didn't sound right at all.

"Sam," he said softly, touching Sam's shoulder but not shaking him, wary of jarring any other unseen injuries. "Sammy, come on. You gotta wake up now." When his brother still didn't respond, Dean started to panic, his voice a shaky growl as he squeezed Sam's shoulder a little harder. "Sam, wake up, dammit! You don't get to do this, you understand? If you don't open your eyes right the hell now, I'm calling for a damn ambulance and you're going to the hospital. _Wake up_!"

Sam made no move to listen to the command, and Dean's heart sank. There were so many things that could be wrong after a fall like that, he didn't even want to think about all of them. But moving Sam on his own while he was unconscious was out of the question. If he had a head or spinal injury that Dean couldn't see, moving him – and probably stumbling with him in his arms repeatedly – up the side of the ravine could permanently damage or paralyze him, if not outright kill him.

And if Sam died out here, broken and bleeding at the bottom of this God-forsaken mountain trail, it would be completely on Dean's shoulders. After all, he'd been the one to cave in and let his sick brother come along in the first place when he had no business being anywhere near a hunt right now. But this was not the right time for regret. What mattered at the moment was getting Sam out of here in whatever way he had to, just so long as his little brother was okay.

So when Sam started unconsciously gasping for breath in rasping heaves, mouth gaping and nostrils flaring as he fought for oxygen he apparently didn't have, Dean's decision was made then and there. Filled with guilty panic and out of other options, he took his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and –

"Sorry, bro. You're not leavin' me any other choice here."

– dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

><p>It hadn't been very long between the time Dean had called for paramedics and the time they actually arrived, although he only realized that in hindsight. Waiting there on the forest floor with Sam, still completely unconscious while he gasped fruitlessly for breath and his already pale lips began to turn blue, made up some of the most undoubtedly long moments in Dean Winchester's life. When the rescue workers finally arrived – in a helicopter, which Dean was too worried about Sam to even notice – they hadn't wasted any time getting him strapped to a gurney and loaded into the chopper, Dean following right behind and watching everything they did from an out-of-the-way corner.<p>

He learned on the flight to the hospital that Sam's strange breathing was being caused by a collapsing lung, the source of which was still not known except that it had to be some kind of blunt trauma from the fall. The paramedics had given him oxygen and tried to insert a chest tube to see if it could help release the pressure on his lung and re-inflate it, but because the Winchesters' lives just sucked like that, no dice.

So once they finally got to the hospital, Sam was whisked away before Dean could even find out where they were taking him, and the nurses in the waiting room later told him Sam had been X-rayed and immediately taken to surgery to fix the collapsed lung, as well as a broken arm and leg Dean hadn't known he had.

It had been hours since then, and Dean was about ready to punch the next person who told him he would "be informed of Sam's condition as soon as we know something." Was it really so hard for them to find something out _now_? Seriously, the O.R. was just one or two hallways away from there. He'd go check on Sam himself if he didn't think it would get him a one-way ticket out on his ass in the street. That wouldn't help anything at all.

But now he was out of paperwork to forge, he'd read every magazine here, and the TV was stuck on a static channel that no one seemed to know how to get it off of. That left his mind to wander, and it immediately went back to the fact that all of this was his entire fault. Sure, Sam had been the one to ask to go on the hunt, but Dean was supposed to have been looking out for him. He should have told him no and just refused the whole thing, puppy eyes be damned.

And if Sam didn't make it through this, Dean knew he would never in a million years forgive himself for it.

He was just about to leave for his fourth cup of sludge-like, cold coffee when a nurse came into the waiting room and called, "Family of Sam Winchester?" Dean was out of his seat and across the room so fast she actually looked startled, but he didn't care; she knew something about Sam.

"How is he?" he demanded, not bothering with his usual flirtations.

"Come with me, please," she said instead. "His doctor knows more than I do."

Dean nodded and strode after her, past several doors until they reached a small, private room where Sam was lying still, lost in a drug-induced sleep, in a too-small hospital bed. His cheeks were still very pale, but his lips weren't blue anymore, and he only had a nasal cannula under his nose instead of an oxygen mask or a ventilator. His eyes were both blacked thanks to the broken nose, making it look like he'd been sucker-punched repeatedly, and his left leg and right arm were casted from hip to foot and shoulder to fingers, but overall he looked better than when Dean had last seen him.

As soon as the nurse brought Dean into the room, he was approached by an older man with graying black hair and a white coat, who he rightly guessed to be Sam's doctor. The man introduced himself as Dr. Fletcher, and then cut right to the chase, which Dean appreciated.

"Your brother's a very lucky man, Mr. Winchester," he told Dean solemnly. "I know he looks rough, but his injuries are actually very minor considering where he fell and what a beating he must have taken on the way down. That's why we have him on some pain medications right now, to keep him more comfortable."

Dean nodded, glad that Sam didn't have to be awake and in pain right after going through all this.

"His arm and leg are broken, but the breaks are clean, which means they'll be much less painful and heal much faster than usual if he doesn't put too much stress on them," the doctor continued. "For someone his size, that unfortunately means no walking without crutches until the casts come off, and even that should be as limited as possible.

"He also sustained a lot of bruising to his lumbar vertebrae, so his back will be very sore for at least a couple of weeks, but he's lucky not to have fractured anything in his spine. We stitched up the gash on his head as well, and there isn't any sign of a concussion. The most severe injury was a broken rib on the right side, same as the arm. A piece of it had broken off and was putting pressure on his right lung, which is what caused it to begin collapsing. We made a small incision and removed the fragment easily, and his breathing stabilized almost immediately."

"Thank God," Dean said quietly, glancing over at Sam even though he knew he couldn't see the incision through all of those blankets covering him up. In a way, he was glad he couldn't see it at the moment; it would just remind him of what a close call this had been, and there would be plenty of time to think about that later.

"Yes, as I said, Sam's a very lucky man. If you hadn't been there to call for help, I doubt he would have lasted the rest of the day."

Dean gulped, trying to push that unpleasant thought away. "So, uh, when can he go home?"

"I'd like him to stay at least a few more days, just to be sure there aren't any complications. After that, he's free to be released. I assume you'll be the one taking care of him afterwards?"

_You're damn straight._

"Yeah."

"Good. You seem very capable. Well, if you don't have any further questions, I think I'll continue my rounds. Sam should be waking up very soon, if you want to stay here with him."

Dean nodded, and Dr. Fletcher took that as the dismissal it was meant to be, leaving the room and quietly shutting the door behind him. He pulled up a chair next to Sam's bed, crossing his arms and leaning back while he stared aimlessly up at the ceiling, lost in thought. When he heard a slight rustling from the bed, though, he immediately snapped to attention, watching as Sam slowly blinked his eyes open and groaned at the bright light. After a few seconds, his eyes settled on Dean, and he smiled sleepily, looking more exhausted than he had in a long time.

"Hey," he rasped, wincing when he took too deep a breath and stretched his still-tender ribs.

"Hey yourself," Dean said with a smirk. Then he sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Man, do you just love landing yourself in the hospital or were you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Huh?" Sam managed to get out, still not able to process everything Dean was saying.

"You fell down the side of that ravine today, remember? Broke your arm and leg, cut your head, wound up with a collapsed lung and almost broke your damn spine! Do you know how close to dead you came? This is exactly why I didn't want to go through with this, Sam!"

Sam had gotten increasingly wide-eyed as he listened to Dean speak, slowly remembering everything that had happened and realizing for himself just how lucky he was to still be living – and how angry Dean must be with him right now.

"Dean, I'm sorry –" he started, but didn't make it farther than that before he was coughing harshly, doubling over to clutch at his ribs as each cough sent waves of agony shooting through them.

"Crap," Dean said, cutting off his rant when he saw that Sam was in pain. He got him a glass of water, waiting until the coughs had tapered off enough for him to drink, and then held it up for him so it didn't all end up spilled in his lap. When he'd finished it, Dean put it back on the table, right beside the pitcher in case he needed more later. He saw Sam immediately getting ready to start apologizing again, and raised a hand to cut him off.

"No, Sam. Not now. We'll talk about this later, okay?"

Sam's face fell, obviously thinking Dean was truly angry with him. "But Dean, I really –"

"Shut up Sam." He smiled reassuringly, reaching out to pat Sam on the knee of his good leg a couple of times. "What you really need right now is to rest. The doc says you can get out of here in a few days, but you're still really banged up, and I bet it hurts like a bitch."

Sam shifted a little, wincing when even that much movement stretched out parts of his body he hadn't even realized could bruise. "Yeah, kinda."

"So sleep for now, okay? Everything's gonna be fine. There'll be plenty of time to talk later."

"Yeah, okay… And, Dean?"

"Huh?"

"Just so you know, what happened today isn't your fault at all."

Dean smiled bitterly, pushing the button on Sam's morphine drip a couple of times when he saw how many pained lines had crept into his brother's face after even that much talking.

"No, Sam, it _is_ my fault," he said to himself once Sam had fallen asleep again. "Anything that happens to you on my watch will _always_ be my fault. And from now on, I'm gonna make sure these trials don't do anything else to you. Everything's gonna be okay, I promise."

He meant every word he said, too. Today's failed hunt, the business with the Angel Tablet, the Trials… All of it was going to be okay. It had to be, or he would die trying to make it so, because there was no acceptable outcome other than Sam being alright at the end of all this. And whatever might happen to them between now and then, for Dean there would _never_ be any other option.

He was going to keep his little brother safe, no matter what.


End file.
